


Share The Sun

by jillyfae



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: F/F, POV Maryse Lightwood, Pre-Relationship, Reminiscing, Training Room, past unrequited Maryse Lightwood/Jocelyn Fairchild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:53:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29274996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/pseuds/jillyfae
Summary: Half full of regret, half overflowing with hope, Maryse takes a moment to observe how history repeats itself... but better this time. Izzy and Clary have eyes for only each other, and Maryse knows they'll end up somewhere so much better than she or Jocelyn ever did.
Relationships: Clary Fray/Isabelle Lightwood
Comments: 5
Kudos: 29
Collections: Rare Pair Gift Exchange





	Share The Sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [evelitan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evelitan/gifts).
  * Inspired by [[fanmix] Share The Moon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29464797) by [faejilly (jillyfae)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/pseuds/faejilly). 



It’s Maryse’s favorite time of day in the Institute, late enough in the morning most of the overnight shifts have settled, early enough the day shifts haven’t really gotten going yet, light pouring in through the stained glass, almost everything still peaceful, still quiet.  


Almost. 

Someone’s in the training room.  


Maryse leans against the door frame as she looks in, swallowing the urge to smile. She doesn't call out, doesn't interrupt, but nonetheless it says something about their focus that neither of the young women training notice her. Maryse isn't sure they'd notice a pitched battle in the hallway, and the thought makes her smile break partially free, one side of her mouth quirking up despite her best intentions.

They're not actually _training,_ not really, their time together a thing of beauty, of joy rather than duty. They're well past anything educational or instructional, clearly playing more than anything else, the bright sound of their laughter echoing almost as loudly as the clack of their staves when they hit, louder than the soft scrapes and slides of their feet against the floor; softer than the _thud_ when one of them lands flat on her back, her breath knocked out of her for a moment before she's ready to go again, a brief clasp of hands all it takes to get her back up, bouncing up onto the balls of her feet, equal parts impatience and delight.

It's more and more obvious each day how much young Clarissa takes after her mother. Her stance is even similar, bringing up the ghosts of old memories from when Maryse was as young as they were, though Maryse didn't think she'd ever let herself _enjoy_ that youth, couldn't remember ever laughing the way they were. Couldn't remember ever letting her guard down that far, not even around people she'd thought she'd trusted, thought she'd lov— 

Maryse swallows, wonders what story Jocelyn had used to train her daughter in some of the basics, without ever giving away why. Clary's not the fastest fighter, nor the flashiest, but she's _determined,_ light enough on her feet to keep going, no matter how many times Izzy scores a point or almost knocks her down. Good enough to score a few points of her own, to sweep Izzy's staff where she wants it so she can press her advantage, Izzy's delighted smile at the move even brighter than the morning sun through the windows. 

And oh, how Isabelle reminds Maryse of herself all those years ago, so clearly captivated by the way the sunlight shines in the flame-bright hair of a Fairchild. Maryse recognizes it, how her daughter turns towards the bright spark of Clary's attention just like Maryse had always turned toward Jocelyn.

Not that Maryse had realized it back then. It wouldn't have been safe to admit, even to herself, that she didn't fall into the Circle because of Valentine's crusade, that it hadn't been his words that had "saved" her, that had brought her into a new cause, into a family that she had believed in, had known would stand around her just as she stood with them, a family that would, she'd thought, be there for her more than her own ever had. (A family that had banded together for all the wrong reasons, desperation and grief and resentment, a family that Valentine would destroy if they betrayed him, but they'd thought themselves a family nonetheless, had been a family of sorts, them against the rest of the world.)

Maryse's brother Max had abandoned Idris for his mundane, and her parents had turned away from their young daughter, and no one had trusted a _Trueblood,_ not any more, the name the worst sort of irony in anyone else's mouth.

Until Jocelyn.

Jocelyn, who said her name easily, who had met Maryse's eyes without flinching, whose hair flamed red-gold in the sunlight, as gorgeous as any halo, who would spar with Maryse without rolling her eyes or muttering under her breath, who listened when Maryse spoke. 

(Whose skin had shone as beautiful as starlight under the Alicante streetlights, but who had never _laughed,_ not like Clary did, not like Isabelle. Jocelyn had always been too serious, the weight of her husband's regard too heavy upon her shoulders to let her relax, to let her enjoy... anything. Despite all the time Maryse had spent watching Jocelyn, she hadn't ever realized it, recognized it, and she couldn't help but wonder how different things might have been if she had. They'd all deserved better than Valentine, Jocelyn most of all.)

It had never been for Valentine, Maryse's loyalty, even though it was to him she'd sworn her oaths, even though it was him she'd followed as he fell. 

But then Jocelyn had fled, without a word or a hint to anyone she couldn't trust, anyone she thought was loyal to her husband, and Maryse had realized how far she was from anywhere she'd ever wanted to be.

Even if it had taken another twenty years before she truly changed direction. 

But now she's here, watching the way Izzy's hands linger when she adjusts Clary's stance, the way Clary's cheeks flush at the contact, the way Izzy's breath catches between words, the way Clary watches the lines of light and shadow across Izzy's body. 

They're both so far gone, and so very bad at hiding it. It burns in Maryse's chest, fizzy and sparking like champagne, the relief that she'd failed to teach her daughter how to hide something like this, even if Izzy's apparently not quite ready to act on it.

Maryse suspects young Clarissa will crack first, will show Isabelle her sketchbook, the one that's almost exclusively of Isabelle, the one she closes with a flush whenever anyone else notices her using it. Or maybe Clary will drag Izzy out for coffee, for breakfast after a patrol, will let her fingers linger so long against the curl of Isabelle's snake bracelet or the warmth of her skin that even Izzy can't fail to realize what they neither of them seem to know how to say. 

Or perhaps Izzy will take after her brother, will realize one day that she's been waiting too long, will grab Clary and pull her close and kiss her, show her all the things she's feeling rather than risking words. 

Maryse shakes her head, and closes her eyes with a sigh. She feels like she's intruding, and she slips away again, careful not to let her steps tap too loudly against the floor, though she doubts she'd manage to distract them even if she stomped. There's nothing more important to either of them than each other right now.

Her smile widens into a grin; she's so proud of her children she could burst. They'll never make the same mistakes she did, and she couldn't be happier for them. 


End file.
